In Pieces
by Calenheniel
Summary: [Hans x Elsa.] A collection of drabbles of various shapes and sizes: canon, AU, and all the possibilities inbetween. New prompts of five words or less are accepted at any time; leave your suggestions in the comments!
1. Happy Delusion

**Author's Note: **And now, a new collection of stories based on prompts largely given to me by users on Tumblr. Of course, however, as this is an on-going project, feel free to leave your own prompts in the comments! Submissions should be five words or less.

The following first instalment was based on a 100-word prompt given to me by my good friend **yumi-michiyo**, who's also an excellent Frozen fanfic writer on this website. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Happy Delusion**

"You have to go," she says.

He sighs. "You say that every time."

"And every time I mean it," she tells him.

He smirks. "Until you see me," he reminds her.

She isn't moved. "Until I see you," she repeats, dully.

"Don't I please you, Elsa?" he asks, smoothing his thumb across her lip. "Don't I make you _happy?"_

She cuts him a glare. "Someone like _you _could never make me happy," she snaps.

He grins. "But you haven't pushed me away, yet."

"Only because I know this isn't real," she says.

He smiles. "You can't see your own delusion."


	2. Reincarnated

**Author's Note: **Based on a prompt given by **yumi-michiyo**, the content of which is basically the first two sentences of the fic. Originally written for Day 1 of Helsa Week, the theme of which was "Falling for you."

Bonus points to anyone who can name the film from which I stole a line of dialogue.

* * *

**Reincarnated**

They don't meet by the river.

Rather, they're on opposite ends of it—one washing linens, the other fetching water—and though they can see each other, no words have been exchanged.

The silence between them isn't heavy, nor is it uncomfortable; it simply _is._

He's the first to catch his breath when he overfills his pail by accident, drawing it up with cheeks pinked by embarrassment at his carelessness.

She follows shortly after, glancing at linens that are well-soaked by the babbling water, quickly retrieving them and placing them on the riverbank.

He can't help but glance back at her, if only because her looks are so striking—that blonde hair, nearly white, those large blue eyes—and though his task is done and he should be returning home, he's compelled to stay.

She tries to avert her gaze when she catches his look, fussing with another bit of clothing to be washed, though her eyes travel back to his light green ones, over the fine auburn colour of his hair, and across the broad sweep of his shoulders.

They've never seen anyone like each other before.

Of course, there are plenty of beautiful girls back in his village (though none pay any mind to him as the mayor's youngest son), some of them prettier than her—but there's something in the way her hands fidget that keeps his attention fixed to her, fascinated by the movement.

He's not so unique to her, either—her younger sister has similarly-coloured hair, a splash of freckles across her cheeks, and blue-green eyes, and besides, there are plenty of young men like him back in her town, all vying for her hand in marriage as the heir to the recently-passed governor's vast fortune—but there's something in the way his lips slip into a shy grin that makes her blush despite her best efforts not to.

He wonders who she is.

She wonders if he recognises her.

"Hi," he says finally, waving a little, though he worries that his voice didn't carry across the distance.

"Hi," she replies after a beat, swallowing her hesitation, though she keeps her hands folded in her lap.

He stares inquisitively. "Are you from around here?" he asks.

She looks down. "Sort of," she says.

"I hope you don't mind me saying this, but," he begins, eyeing her curiously, "I'm surprised to see you here, washing sheets, when you're wearing such a fine dress."

"I—I gave the servants the day off," she lies, examining his outfit, "and I'm surprised to see _you _here, gathering water, when you're wearing such a fine shirt."

He blinks, surprised; then, his eyes are tired, and he sighs. "I didn't want to," he explains. "My father forced me to do it."

She freezes, cold; then, her eyes are hard, and she breathes. "Your father," she repeats. "I miss my own."

Their gazes meet.

The silence between them isn't heavy, nor is it uncomfortable; it simply _is._

But they don't understand why.


	3. Pity

**Author's Note: **Co-written with **yumi-michiyo **for Day 2 of Helsa Week on Tumblr: "Like fire, like ice."

Based on a prompt given by **pillaicha **on Tumblr: "No prince can rescue her."

* * *

**Pity**

It's hard to believe he's the same person she met at her coronation three years before: all charming smiles, graceful poise, respectful bows.

The only thing indicating as much now is the sharp shadow his profile casts on the stone floor of the cell, though the peak of his brow is furrowed in a dark way.

(Like the way it'd been when he'd swung the sword above her head.)

"Leave us," she says to the guards, stepping over the threshold. When the smell of the putrid air hits her, she regrets her decision to come here, to this _place._

But then, she sees him—his back hunched, his head bowed, clothed in a shirt and pants torn to pieces by weapons whose names she knows, but cannot utter aloud without feeling sick—and the smell fades into the background, because the sight of him is the only thing can think of.

"Hans," she says his name, and it feels foreign on her lips. "What—what have they _done _to you?"

His neck is clearly straining as he greets her blue eyes, and she's taken aback when she realises that he's not surprised to see her.

"Only what a _traitor _deserves, Your Majesty," he returns, though his tone isn't mocking like she expected it to be.

Instead, there's genuine _penitence _there, buried, as is everything else, beneath the layer of grime and scars, and she doesn't know what to make of it.

Because _seeing _those marks, and hearing that defeated voice, she instinctively wants to help him—and even while remembering _why _he has them, she can't help but draw closer to him, place her cold hands on his chained wrists, and hold fast his tight, pained stare.

"_No one _deserves this, Hans," she whispers, and without even realising it, the ice swirls out from beneath her fingertips, thickly encasing his shackles. "Please, let me help you."

He gazes at her wonderingly, and that look makes her heart _thrum _in an unfamiliar way. "Elsa, you shouldn't," he shrinks back from her, "you _can't_—not for someone like me."

His lips press together until they turn white. "Not after what I've done."

She shakes her head, gripping his wrists even more tightly. "I _want _to help you, Hans—so, please," she says, and smiles, "_let_ me—"

The chains _break, _and the sound rattles in her ears, because—

"Did you think you could _rescue _me?" he hisses, squeezing the chain around her neck, his voice reedy from the damp air. "Noble Elsa, _kind _Elsa."

Her fingers scrabble uselessly at him, ice forming in stuttered gasps, and she feels the tears on her cheeks before she realises she's weeping, unable to form words.

His hair blurs into a halo of fire. "You couldn't save anyone, Elsa," he tells her, almost _cooing_, before he crushes his lips to hers—and the tenderness, so at odds with the steel around her throat, is _poison _to her as the world fades to black.

"Not even _yourself_."


	4. Broken

**Author's Note: **Co-written with **yumi-michiyo **for Day 4 of Helsa Week on Tumblr: "It's complicated." (And I have it on good authority that she's currently writing a prequel to this drabble, which you can all be assured is going to be incredible!)

Based on a prompt given by **nixreginam **on Tumblr, a most excellent Elsa RP'er: "She's afraid of the ocean." (And there's a second one coming up based on the same prompt, because I loved it so much.)

* * *

**Broken**

He's not scared of the water.

Nor is he scared of the deep, churning blue-black of the sea, its fickle shifts, its unpredictable terrors.

Because to him, it means _freedom._

There's nothing out there—no rank, no expectations, no society—nothing but the salty air and the horizon stretching out beyond sight, beckoning him to the edge of the world.

But she doesn't understand that; she doesn't even try to.

She has many fears, _too _many, but there's one she dreads the most.

"I don't know how you can stand it," she says, looking out on the fjord, her blue eyes unusually sharp today. "It—" she pauses, finding the right word, "it consumes _everything."_

She's sitting on her window-seat, as always, but her gaze has turned distant again, and he has to hold back a sigh at the sight of her.

He can't help her when she gets this way.

"Not everything," he tells her, though he doesn't manage to draw her eyes away from the window, "not _me."_

She smiles lightly. "Yes, you're right," she says, and finally looks at him, taking his gloved hands in her bare ones, small and pale. "It spared you, at least."

He's forced to return the smile lest she realise that anything is amiss. "Then it can't be all bad, can it?"

She drops his hands at that, and he curses himself for the slip-up.

A sigh leaves her lips. "It's easy for you to love it, to _miss _it," she says, and softly pats the epaulettes on his jacket. "It was your whole life, after all."

_And now _you _are, _he thinks, swallowing a grimace, training himself not to flinch at her touch.

"You like the way the water looks when the sky's 'awake,' though—don't you?" he reminds her, using her sister's phrase; as he'd hoped, the word brings out a warm expression on her cold features.

"I do," she admits, her back relaxing. "But that's … _different."_

"Different," he repeats.

She tilts her head to the side. "Yes, it's—not as dark, then," she explains haltingly, "not as _deep."_

The warmth fades from her lips, and the hollow look she wears makes him anxious—but there's a knock on the door before he can think of something to say, and recognising the pattern, he knows it's time.

"I have to leave now, Elsa," he says, placing his hand gently on her shoulder as he rises.

Her eyes are wide, full of _fear, _and her hand desperately grabs his. "No, _please, _please don't go."

He's trying to twist himself out of her grasp as he backs away. "Elsa," he reassures her, "I'll be back tomorrow at the same time—"

"Look, I—I'll wear the gloves!" she begs, drawing the garments from the table nearby, sloppily pulling them on, "I'll be a good girl, I swear!"

His shoulders are trembling as he finally manages to shake her off, stalking towards the door.

"I'll conceal it, Papa! I'll—I'll conceal, I won't _feel, _I won't hurt anyone—**please**!"

It's the last thing she cries out before he shuts the door behind him, though he can hear her wailing just on the other side of it, her figure huddled against the wood, curled into a ball.

Through her sobs, and through the door between them, he just barely makes it out.

_"Please don't shut me out."_

He shudders, clutching his arms against himself.

(There's a young boy inside of him that wants to join her in weeping, but he doesn't.)

Because he can't.

_You broke her, Hans, _he hears Anna's voice again, angry and empty and hoarse from crying. _She's your responsibility, now._

He knows that's not the truth, though he daren't say that aloud; the truth, he thinks, is far worse.

_She was _born _broken._


	5. Distortion

**Author's Note: **Based on an anon prompt for a betrothed Helsa piece and written for Day 4 of Helsa Week on Tumblr: "It's complicated."

Special, special thanks to **yumi-michiyo** for suffering through the torturous process of writing and re-writing this piece over the course of two days. I think it turned out well, and all because of her patience and excellent concrit.

* * *

**Distortion**

"I don't want her."

"Nor does anyone else," his brother, the king, replies. "But repeating yourself isn't going to change anything, Hans."

"She's a monster," the prince snaps, scowling. "A _freak of nature._"

The king sighs. "A freak of nature with a _sizeable_ dowry," he reminds him, frowning. "One that could get us out of the many debts our _dearest _father left the kingdom in."

"It's—" he pauses, grinding his teeth, "it's not _fair._"

His brother's brow rises. "Fair?" He laughs, short and harsh. "You're a _prince, _Hans, and you have certain duties that you must fulfil—this has nothing to do with being 'fair.'"

"I'll be laughed at," he returns more quietly, "I'll be _mocked._"

The king sighs again and pats his youngest brother's shoulder, though there's no affection in the gesture.

"You're already laughed at," he says dryly, "and you're already mocked."

The king waves him away after that, as if he's little more than a servant—and he might as well be, as the _thirteenth _in line to a throne he'll never have—and the prince bows perfunctorily, keeping his head ducked as he walks out.

He knows by now when he's not wanted.

* * *

"Your Highness," the steward, a portly man, bows to him in greeting. "Welcome to Arendelle."

He nods back politely, though he doesn't want to; the voyage across the choppy North Sea wasn't a pleasant one, and he'd rather just be shown to his rooms and not see anyone else for the rest of the day.

(Or, better yet, he'd rather go back on the ship, and set sail for somewhere far from that place—and far from home.)

"I'll give you a short tour of the castle, and then show you to your rooms," the man continues, and he follows him through the gates, creaking and heaving as if they haven't been opened in years. "I'll have your luggage unloaded in the meantime."

The steward's courtesy is refreshing after suffering through the rumours and gossip that have followed him here. He can't decide, looking back on them, which were worse: the ones pitying him for his tragic fortune, or those _jeering _at the betrothal of the unlucky thirteenth and the ill-fated firstborn.

He holds in a frown, determining that they're equally irritating.

On the first step to the main doors, tall and imposing and dark, he pauses, finding his voice.

"And when am I to meet the Princess, sir?"

The man freezes, almost as if a cold wind has passed by him, but it's a warm, bright summer's day.

"After dinner, Your Highness," he replies finally, plastering on a smile, and quickly changes topics to the history of Arendelle and its ice trade.

The prince isn't listening.

* * *

"So, you're … from the Southern Isles? What's it like, there?"

He's having dinner with the younger princess—Anna, the _normal _one (or at least as normal as someone can be after being shut away from the world behind those thick, heavy gates)—and up until then, they'd been sitting in awkward silence, he cutting through his food as properly as he could, she picking at hers and anxiously glancing at him between small bites.

"It's …" he stops, and for a second, he can feel the shadow of his brother, the _king_, hovering over his shoulder.

He forces himself to breathe, and then to speak. "It's warm," he says at last; seeing the slight look of disappointment she wears, he attempts a smile. "Warmer than here."

"Anywhere's warmer than _here,_" she mumbles bitterly, and her gaze returns to her plate as she suddenly shudders, a chill seeming to wash over her.

This time, he feels it too.

* * *

As promised, he's led to her quarters—or perhaps it's her _prison_—after dinner ends.

Had that not been the destination, he supposes he might've been relieved to go, if only to escape the suffocating conversation he'd been forced to have with the other princess.

Things being as they are, however, he follows the head housekeeper as she guides him to that room on the second floor of the castle, her hand unsteady as it grips the lantern, and he wonders at how _horrible _this creature he's been betrothed to must be to instil so much terror in the hearts of her own servants.

(And in the hearts of her own parents who'd kept her locked away all these years, he remembers, before their tragic passing at sea.)

They reach the doors, tall and white with floral patterns, though the paint on them is chipping.

"Your Highness," the housekeeper calls with a shaking voice as she knocks on the doors, "Prince Hans is here to see you."

The princess doesn't reply.

"He's come all the way from the Southern Isles, Your Highness," the housekeeper reminds her, though her hands are visibly trembling, now. "He's come _just_ to see you."

There's no answer to that, either, and he expected as much, sighing.

"It's all right," he says tiredly, "I can come back another day—"

There's a croak of a whisper from beyond the door—_let him in_—and for a moment he thinks he's imagining it until the older woman turns to him and nods, cautiously opening the doors, and allows him inside.

He almost doesn't go in, intimidated by the surprisingly wide expanse of the room, but he's over the threshold before he knows it, and the doors are closed behind him.

He doesn't find her straightaway, because he's taken aback—taken aback at how _well-lit _the place is, not at all dark and dank and _putrid _like he thought it would be, after all the stories he's heard and been told—and there's the distinct smell of fresh lilacs filling his senses, rendering him speechless.

"You're … Prince Hans?"

The small voice finally brings his attention to her—_Her Royal Highness, Elsa of Arendelle, the Snow Princess_—and he's once again stunned as he regards the young woman by the window with white-blonde hair, blue eyes, and skin kissed by moonlight.

The young woman, he thinks, who resembles Winter itself.

The young woman who doesn't look like a _monster _at all.

"Yes," he manages, and bows stiffly, "Your Highness. Of the Southern Isles."

She nods back imperceptibly, saying nothing, and seems to shrink into the background.

"We're to be married in a fortnight," he states dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes," she says, "so I've been informed."

There's silence again but for the sound of their breathing, and she stares at him in a way that's slightly unsettling. "You're the youngest of thirteen princes, they say."

His lip curls. "And you're—" _cursed, _he almost sneers, but corrects himself, "—to become queen, they say."

She's obviously uncomfortable at the reminder, because the temperature in the room drops; if something as small as _this _can set her on edge, he muses, it's no wonder that her servants are terrified.

"So they say," she echoes him after a while, though it's still cold, and he can't help but shiver. She retreats further against the wall by the window, her figure half-cloaked by shadow, and she isn't looking at him anymore. "And you're to be my king."

That title—_my king—_should please him more than it does, should make him feel like more than just the unlucky thirteenth, should make him smile at the thought of proving his brothers wrong, of proving _everyone _wrong.

The hollow expression on her face, however, quickly sucks dry whatever triumphs or _ambitions _he might've had; and when she turns her head just enough for the night sky to illuminate the dull glow of her eyes—

His resolve withers, too.

* * *

There are other visits in the days that follow, and always in the evening, after dinner—after he's attempted to be civil with the younger princess (_Anna_, he remembers) and with the staff, learning their names, thinking how they'll be _his _staff soon, too—but it never gets any easier.

There's always something _stilted _about their conversations, the phrases coming out half-formed, the sentences never reaching their natural conclusions. As a man who's used to knowing the right words and when and _how _to say them, it's endlessly frustrating to be in her company.

It doesn't help that time is never of the essence when he's with her, in that room, minutes turning into hours into days; that doesn't stop it, though, from marching on, _slowly, _like one of the vines creeping up the castle's walls, until finally it's the night before they're to be wed, and he still doesn't really know, nor _understand_, the strange creature with whom he is meant to share a bed for the rest of his days after that.

He has some insights into her character, of course: she's more perceptive than she lets on, and _blunter _with her opinions than a princess—no, a future _queen_, he amends—ought to be.

Somehow, he prefers it that way.

* * *

"You don't want me."

She says it with such a dull inflection that he thinks he might've misheard her, at first.

"I—what? Your Highness, I—"

He pauses, looking at her, and he knows there's no point in lying. "No. I don't," he admits; eyeing her curiously, he adds: "Do you? Want me, that is."

"It's not about what I 'want'—what _either _of us 'want.'" She stares at him pointedly. "Isn't that what they told you, too?"

He swallows. "Yes. It is."

She looks away. "And so they sent you away," she says knowingly. "Sent you here, because you're the only one who'd have me."

_I wouldn't, _he almost says, but he knows he doesn't need to. She can already see the words forming in his throat, in the way his Adam's apple bobs uncomfortably at her look.

She seems to hold back a sigh.

"I'm sorry for you," she says.

He doesn't reply, but as he gazes upon her, reclined in her window seat, tracing patterns of frost on the glass separating her from the outside, he allows himself to exhale.

He's sorry for both of them.

* * *

The wedding is a sombre occasion, which is fitting enough, given the circumstances.

Only the princess's closest relations are in attendance—namely, her sister, who's wearing an expression so plaintive it's better-suited to a funeral—as well as the Council members and the higher-ranking domestic staff.

On his side, there's a lone envoy from the Southern Isles—a tall, thin man with a thick beard and a perpetually bored look—and it doesn't surprise him that his brother sent someone he'd never even met before that day.

Towards the back, there is the public—seated on the outskirts or waiting with bated breath outside of the chapel, curious to finally see the Hidden Princess of Arendelle, the _Bane _of Winter—and he's suddenly discomfited by their gestures and whispers and _looks _as they gawk at him, the foreign prince to whom their future queen has been promised. It's more attention than he's ever been paid before, and he's unused to that sea of eyes.

Unused to anyone looking at him with anything but bitter disappointment or derisive dismissiveness.

(He wonders, absently, if she's felt like this, too.)

**"Her Royal Highness, Princess Elsa of Arendelle!"**

There are no cheers or cries of good fortune accompanying the arrival of the princess, dressed in white, her pale face draped with a long veil, as would have been the custom elsewhere.

Instead, it's only the _whispers _following her down the aisle—the aisle that she's walking down alone, her gloved hands shaking even though they hold no flowers.

He supposes he'd find her beautiful, if he could see her without the trappings of that setting, and that _audience_. But he's too distracted by the way she keeps her head bowed as she ascends the stairs to the altar, stands opposite him, and fixes her eyes to the floor.

She's so different, now, from the quiet but assertive young woman he's become acquainted with on long nights spent in shared silence, and even more different still from the _monster_ who once only instilled fear and revulsion in his heart from afar.

The latter of those has never seemed further away than it does as he regards her then, ignoring the droning of the chaplain, the rest of the world fading away into nothing.

In the stillness, she finally raises her gaze to his, and he freezes.

_"You don't want me," _she says so only he can hear, and he can see her lips trembling through the veil that covers them. _"No one does."_

She looks down again, and he breathes—but it's a shuddering breath, a _cold _breath, because now he understands, and he _sees_.

He sees, in her, the same fear that once pulsed through him in his childhood; the same hesitation that once plagued his every step; the same self-loathing that he still possesses, and that's still _crushing _him under its weight.

She's a mirror, he realises, tasting nothing but the stale air of the chapel as he swallows, but not the sort of mirror he's accustomed to—the sort that reflects his image in plain, certain terms.

Instead, he looks distorted—_rotten_—and all that's reflected is his own emptiness.

(His _worthlessness._)

He's even uglier than he imagined.


	6. Lies

**Author's Note: **Apologies for my long absence; life has been crazy. This is based on a prompt given by **yumi-michiyo**: "The lies that bind us." Written for Day 5 of Helsa Week on Tumblr: "Secrets, lies and trust."

* * *

**Lies**

It's been a year since she last saw him—_a year,_ she thinks, _and he looks none the wiser for it._

He doesn't know she's there, no, not yet; he's too busy clinking glasses with another man, slightly older, resembling him in more ways than one. She guesses that it's one of his brothers.

It's odd that he seems to get along with the taller man so well, considering what he told her sister on the night of her coronation. Then again, considering what he did and said afterwards, she supposes she shouldn't be surprised that anything he did and said _before _then would hold any truth to it at all.

_You're nothing but a lie._

Her nose wrinkles as she watches him, wondering when he'll notice her, but when he picks up another full glass she gets the feeling that it's going to take him a while.

She allows herself to mingle with the other lords and ladies of the Southern Isles in the meantime, to have a drink or two, to glance at him from time to time, her hatred for him _festering. _If she's going to be forced to be diplomatic with the very people whose traitorous relation tried to kill her, she'll damn well make sure she enjoys it.

Somewhere between her second and third glass, she loses track of him.

She breathes out the smallest of curses, quiet enough to go unheard, as she excuses herself from the group—but she only manages to get as far as the balcony before she sighs, thinks _God, what are you _doing, _Elsa?, _shakes her head, and begins retracing her steps back towards the ballroom.

**"Your Majesty."**

She stops, her hand falling to her side, and she looks up.

"Hans."

His cheeks are pink from the champagne, but she knows hers are worse—and that wouldn't matter much, normally, except for the fact that the ice isn't _pulsing _through her as naturally as it should, and she scowls, hating herself, and hating _him, _because—

_You _knew _this would happen._

"You lied," she says, unable to hold back the words. "About _everything."_

He takes a step towards her, and she wishes she weren't so terrified of him—of the playful smirk on his lips, the refined point of his teeth, the darkness in his eyes which is so unlike either of those, but mirrors her own—because she can't step backward, afraid that she'll topple over, _crumple _in front of this man.

"Perhaps I did," he admits, and his hand brushes against her cheek, which grows cold at the touch of his gloved fingers. He chuckles. "But everyone lies, Queen Elsa—even _you_."

Her throat is hot at the accusation, and she wants to tell him he's wrong, but she remembers it as well as he does—spiteful words exchanged in secret, a stolen kiss, that hateful embrace, those same, gloved fingers _pulsing _inside of her—and the retort dies on her lips.

Because she lied to Anna, too.


	7. Fear

**Author's Note: **Also based on the prompt given by **nixreginam **on Tumblr: "She's afraid of the ocean." An AU piece written for Day 6 of Helsa Week on Tumblr: "I'm scared."

* * *

**Fear**

"Are you all right, Miss?"

She looks out from under her heavy cloak, her eyes nervous, wondering from whence that voice came.

When they find the source, her breath catches in her throat before her mouth can form a reply.

"I—I'm fine," she stutters, snapping her teeth together in embarrassment. "I just—I wanted to see the sky when it's awake," she finishes quietly, and looks up at the dancing colours above.

She hopes that they're not illuminating her features too much—or, if they are, that he doesn't recognise her.

_He probably does, _she thinks, grimacing, _because _everyone _knows, don't they?_

Though the man in the white and blue uniform with the red cravat doesn't give any indication that he does, she can feel his light green eyes on her, and she can't bring herself to meet his stare, afraid that he'll see how pink her cheeks are.

"Are you from around here?" he asks, and finally she glances at him, though one glimpse of his thick auburn hair is enough to make her skin turn a deep scarlet.

She swallows, her gloved hands twisting together. "From the cas—from the town, yes," she corrects herself, biting her lip. "But usually I—I'm not allowed out this late."

_Or allowed out at all._

He smiles. "I see," he says, and takes a step towards her. Now he's standing beside her at that dark edge of the port, sheltered by the roof of a long-closed storefront overhead, and both are looking out onto the fjord.

The water is green, and blue, and _glowing, _and she only wishes she had the courage to share it with the only person in her life who still matters to her—but she doesn't, and she doesn't know if she'll _ever_ have it, and so she contents herself with the company of this man.

This _stranger._

"It's beautiful," he says, and her hands tighten.

"And _cold," _she adds in just above a whisper, drawing his bright gaze to hers.

"Are you—" he pauses, "afraid of it? The ocean?"

Her face blanches at the question, because it's so sudden, and it _strikes _her at her very core.

_You couldn't save them, Elsa._

"I—" she starts, and stops, her tongue too limp to go on.

_No one could._

She closes her eyes for a moment; when she opens them, the truth follows.

"Yes. I'm afraid."

He's quiet when he speaks again. "It terrified me too, at first," he admits, and she blinks at him in surprise, "when I started training. I had some terrible nights at sea."

He meets her look with a small smile. "But that's the thing about it—it takes everything away," he murmurs. "Your worries, your fears, your past—and when those are gone," he tells her, "you can start over again."

Her eyes widen, and her lips part as if to speak—but she can't, because the words are too painful to utter.

_And it'll take you away, too._


	8. Martyr

**Author's Note: **Not really a Helsa piece so much as an Elsa piece. Whatever. Based on a prompt given by **yumi-michiyo**: "She's a martyr to time." Written for Day 6 of Helsa Week on Tumblr: "I'm scared." This is the last of the Helsa week prompts; after this, I'll work on the ones you all have kindly sent me via the comments.

* * *

**Martyr**

No one speaks of it, but they don't need to—she already knows.

_Our poor Queen, so alone._

_Our kind Queen, so wounded._

_Our beautiful Queen, so feared._

She can see it in the faces of her councillors, hear it in the whispers of the commoners, feel it in the gentle brushes of the courtiers' gloved hands against her shoulders.

_Her Majesty, the martyr to Time._

It doesn't matter that she's managed this long alone, nor that she's fulfilled her duties in spite of her wounds, nor even that the people love her though she once was feared.

It doesn't matter because it's not _correct._

But then, nothing about her has ever been "correct"—not the whiteness of her hair, nor the ice and snow which she conjures, nor her very birth—and with this in mind, she is able to ignore their faces, whispers, and brushes.

All, that is, except one.

_Don't be the monster they fear you are._

It's been years since then, and so much has happened since; still, those words are engraved in every part of her being, reminding her of who she is and of whom she nearly became.

_Monster._

The title doesn't hold as much power as it once did, if only because she knows that all of that's behind her. She doesn't want to drag the past into the present like she always used to.

But she knows that others will—they can't help it—and so she's forced to confront what she never was, and never wanted to be.

_Her Majesty, the Snow Queen._

He was different from them—unafraid, calm, patient—and she can't believe, even after everything that's happened, that he was the same man who held a sword over her head and swung it down.

A man whose face she remembers with perfect clarity.

There's no reason why she should; after all, he'd intended nothing but harm, and he's suffering for it in a place she'll never go to, somewhere on the other side of the North Sea.

_Don't be the monster they fear you are._

It shouldn't even strike her as a notable turn-of-phrase, now—not when her people have accepted her, love her, _cherish _her, not when she's finally mended her broken bond with her sister, and not when she's entering her tenth year of peaceful rule.

Then, she remembers the things she tries to ignore—the faces, the whispers, the brushes—and her hands fidget, seeking gloves she's long since discarded.

Sometimes, she can catch herself when she's like this, calm herself, forget.

Other times, it's not so easy.

_There is beauty in your magic—but also great danger._

During those times, her recollections of her childhood, her adolescence, and even her adulthood are tinged by a strange redness—by a fear that she once concealed, and faced, but which never really went away.

_Monster._

She's only tried to protect them all by being alone, wounded, _feared_—but they don't understand.

She knows they never will.


End file.
